When the Beech Trees Sigh
by lefcadio
Summary: Will, Bran, chasing dreams and hilltop camping.


i.

He scuffs through the damp leaves, breath misting in the chill morning air. Tall beech trees arc overhead, a brilliant array of oranges and reds patterning the sky of the forest. Fields can be glimpsed to the right, the trees becoming less dense near the farm, and the flashes of visible green are suffused with that strange quality of light which only comes with Autumn. That is, despite the time, it seems there is already the tired soft glow of late afternoon.

A fat pheasant wanders nearby and pauses, watching motionlessly as the boy walks by.

Will sees nothing of this.

He follows no set path; instinctively, he knows where all these faint trails lead. In that direction, Burnham; in this direction, Dorney. He is a way from home, but desired the walk. James had laughed at him, and told him to make sure he had money enough for the bus back.

Will likes these old woods; they have a feeling of quiet comfort, which rests in every gnarled, knotted trunk and leaf-stuffed hollow. The earthy smell of wet vegetation is thick in the air, but there's the telltale smell of a smoky bonfire which wends its way from the farm, surely.

Hands in pockets, his fingers are bare. His right fist clutches worn paper within it, folded three times. His grip tightens as he almost withdraws it, just to see the slanted, curiously spindly script once more.

But Will knows what the letter contains by heart; burned into his memory as is everything of import an Old One reads. _Dear Will,_ it begins. He keeps his hands in his pockets. The paper is warm and crisp against the pressure of his hand, already dogeared though it had arrived only that morning.

He treasures all of the words within it, though it's a certain section in particular which keeps him out, pacing the woods like this. Leaves are sticking to his boots, and damp is creeping up the bottom of his jeans. _Now you mustn't think me mad, bachgen, though no doubt you will - but I thought, if anyone could understand, it would be you._

Oh, Bran.

_What do you know of dreams?_ He can almost hear Bran's voice sounding out the words hesitantly, the lilt of his accent painfully familiar, despite how long it has been.

Will strays off his course and clambers over tree roots and a shallow muddy ditch. Ahead, in a small clearing, a great thick trunk arises - cut off abruptly, about the height of Will's shoulders. He withdraws his hands from his pockets, still holding the letter, and presses them flat against the rough bark.

"More than you think, Bran," he speaks softly, and traces the lines and grooves under his fingertips.

Velvety brown mushrooms cluster around the base of the giant stump, wet black earth scattered across them by Will's boots.

_Often, I find I can't remember them. It's like I'm chasing them, but somehow they remain out of reach. Have you ever felt as though you're being mocked by your own dreams? _

_But I do remember parts, Will. Mostly it's you and I. In a shadowed cave, once, with endless stairs. Or a mirrored hallway, where the light hurts my eyes and I fall to my knees - but you stretch out your hand and then it's all gone. _

_Most vividly, we ride white horses side by side. It's so calm, but - exciting, somehow. As if something's going to happen._

Wil turns to rest his back against the trunk, and knows that this is as close as Bran will get to who he truly is. Or rather, who he was, once. And suddenly, Will misses his pale friend fiercely. But even so, the Old One who is still sometimes as unsure of himself as a boy wonders, should I leave him be?

_Dwl. You think that would help?_ He can practically hear Bran's scornful laugh. Will gazes up around him, taking in the sight of the leaves rustling in the chill breeze, and it's as though the trees let out a comforting sigh. And Will knows.

His own reply is already written in his mind before he's reached the edge of the forest.

_Come and visit,_ the last line reads, _Bran, come and visit._

ii.

Bran is not quite prepared for the business of King's Cross station at Christmas time. People, everywhere, bustling and pushing - and he can feel their eyes on him, too. He scowls and takes off his dark glasses. _Let them look._

The air is thick and almost dirty; he feels as though he can taste the fumes in his mouth, and fingers the rough strap of his rucksack in an unconscious gesture.

Taking a deep breath, he sets off down the platform toward the ticket office and exits. He's never been to London before, and already the sheer size of this place is intimidating.

"Bran!" He glances up, squinting - though he's not about to put his glasses back on now, if only out of stubborn pride - and blurry though the figure is, waving at him happily, he wouldn't mistake it anywhere.

And suddenly, in the midst of this strangeness and alien atmosphere, it's like coming home.

iii.

It's a clear night, crisp and cold, and Will has been absently stirring his hot chocolate for the past five minutes. The stars are bright, and the crescent moon hangs low in the sky, edges indistinct and bleeding.

There's rustling, and Will knows Bran is still worrying the tent, dubious of its stability.

He stares at the sky, and tries to remember a time when most of the constellations were nothing more to him than pretty scatterings of stars, nameless and meaningless. He can't quite manage it.

"You know," Bran's muffled voice emerges amiably from the tent, followed shortly by the boy himself, "when I suggested camping in the Chilterns, I really didn't think I'd be spending the night expecting the tent to collapse at any second."

Will smiles as Bran sprawls lazily on the grass to his right, bringing with him the musty smell of old canvas. "Stop fussing, you sound like Mary."

Bran looks suitably outraged for a moment, but then he sticks his tongue out childishly and grins, and they fall into a comfortable silence.

Will sips his chocolate, and discovers it's gone cold.

iv.

They hadn't really talked about his dreams.

Bran lies awake, looking up at the sky. He breathes in the sharp air, which chills his throat and makes his chest feel tight. He's noticed Will can stare at the sky for hours, and wonders what he sees there that's so compelling.

He turns, cheek pillowed on his arm, grass tickling his nose. Bran would much rather watch Will than the sky.

Will is asleep, small puffs of misty breath escaping from his lips. He looks somewhat solemn, and his plain brown hair is flopping over his eyes. Bran wants to brush it aside.

He wonders if Will's dreams are anything like his own.

v.

He's awoken by someone shaking his shoulder.

Bran.

The temperature has been rapidly dropping, and shivering, he opens his eyes; Bran's hovering over him, looking faintly amused and as though he's about to say something. But no words come, and instead Will finds himself being tugged back inside the tent, among the mess of sleeping bags and blankets.

He's still in a hazy state and barely-awake; it's almost as cold inside as it was back out on the grass. But it's certainly more comfortable, and he's just aware of the cold tips of Bran's fingers still encircling his wrist.

Will knows he's been cowardly. Drifting on the verge of sleep like this, he can't help but be honest. But now that Bran's here with him, he finds he can't make himself bring up the dreams. Because if he does, he'll have to listen to Bran's voice with its dear accent recounting those times, those moments he doesn't really remember.

And he knows, too, that if he lets it happen, he'll begin to nurse that small selfish wish that Bran might recall who he once was, and all that they shared.

Will's noticed the occasional uncertain looks Bran directs at him, though he tries to hide them behind his glasses. He just wishes he knew how to be reassuring.

He adjusts his hand slightly, to rest on Bran's wrist in turn.

vi.

Bran was gone all too soon, and three weeks later Will is standing in the forest once more, this time under strained shafts of watery light. The trees creak under the force of occasional bursts of chill wind, naked of leaves and forming stark patterns against the pale, bleak sky.

He feels Bran's absence more acutely now, though their letters have continued. The other boy obviously takes care not to mention them often, but it's clear the dreams have continued.

Will almost wishes they would stop. Were these hints truly more of a comfort than nothing at all? But, whatever he thought would not really help Bran. Perhaps, though, if he felt he was not alone -

Mentally, he amends the end of his current composition.

_I dream of you, too._


End file.
